


take you to where the sun shines, cast shadows on your face (crawl into their deepest recess,'til i freeze or dehydrate)

by vesperthine



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Introspection, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 04:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine
Summary: They drag themselves up the stairs, and Even closes the door behind them; enveloping them both in the shadows (– the familiar smell, dust, home –) of the hallway. At the far end, that grey light is spilling in from the kitchen, and it’s just enough to make out the silhouette of Isak’s throat as he swallows.This is the aftermath, then; adrenaline sublimated and only the pieces and shivers left in its wake.





	take you to where the sun shines, cast shadows on your face (crawl into their deepest recess,'til i freeze or dehydrate)

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Svenska available: [visserligen lagat med silvertejp, men det här håller inte så länge till](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11579673) by [vesperthine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesperthine/pseuds/vesperthine)



> i’m back again, with the sadness and the long titles (from the same track too). have some post-s4e5 stylistic angst. all my love to [koninginnen](http://koninginnen.tumblr.com) for a quick beta ♡

This close to midsummer, it’s light out until past nine. It hovers on that brink of grey for hours, as the light darkens like a bruise; going from blue to purple to black. Especially when there’s a threat of rain hanging in the air, dragging the temperatures down.

They drag themselves up the stairs, and Even closes the door behind them; enveloping them both in the shadows ( _– the familiar smell, dust, home –_ ) of the hallway. At the far end, that grey light is spilling in from the kitchen, and it’s just enough to make out the silhouette of Isak’s throat as he swallows.

This is the aftermath, then; adrenaline sublimated and only the pieces and shivers left in its wake.

It’s a Friday night ( _– Saturday, soon –_ ) so the emergency room had been quite packed, but after an hour Isak had gotten the painkillers and glue that he needed. The lip had been badly split, and now the bruising ( _– fist catching under his eye, over his mouth and his nose, leaving it all rusty red and broken and you have to calm down Even, you have to calm down –_ ) is spreading like clouds under the thin skin.

Even doesn’t know what this feeling is ( _– a mess, is what it is, a hurt guilt anger despair love spray clinging to the inside of his ribcage like a Pollock –_ ) so he reaches out and combs his fingers through Isak’s hair. It’s damp.

“Hungry?”

The default question is so loud in the cramped hallway.  

In the half-dark, Isak shakes his head. “No. Just tired,” he says, voice rough ( _– from holding back tears and panicked whimpers from how much it had hurt to take knuckles to his bare, lightly pimpled face –_ ) and numb and Even doesn’t know what to do ( _– apart from telling the truth, which, of course, is impossible –_ )

Instead, he watches, hands by his side as Isak stumbles back a bit, toeing out of his shoes.

“Sleep then?” Even leads, and Isak nods. When Even’s hands come up his shoulders ( _– letting him touch again, he’d been so distant in the emergency room, only allowing a stroking hand on his shoulder as he held his face in his hands, eyes closed, breathing ragged as pain swelled like a crescendo –_ ) he lets him take the jacket and blue checkered flannel off.

It has a bit of blood on the sleeve and collar. Even bites the inside of his cheek and hangs it up on the IKEA hangers they’d gotten from his parents right inside the door. He’ll toss it ( _– all their clothes from today, his hands and his very soul if he could rip it out –_ ) into the washing machine tomorrow. There’s a week’s worth of clothing scattered around the apartment as it is. It’s the logical thing to do. He would’ve done it anyway.

“D’you need anything?”

Isak sighs. “Ice pack?” he mumbles, before he slips into their bedroom.

Taking his shoes off, Even goes into the kitchen. It’s in a state of organized mess; what with the dish rack bending under the weight and bread crumbs all over the counter, but at least no dairy products out to get spoiled ( _– and perhaps that describes the both of them a little too well –_ ), so he lets it be. Instead, he digs out an ice block from the freezer, wraps it in a dish towel to dull the sharp edges and create a buffer from the cold.

It’s not the best, but it will get the job done.

He doesn’t bother to turn on any lights. It’s closer to midnight now, but the streetlights filtering in from outside provide enough light to see. Any more, and neither of them could take it, like it would disturb something that is already cracking at the seams ( _– spread thin, trembling under the pressure, pushing against the limits, like blood under skin –_ ) and enough things have been broken tonight.

When he enters, Isak is just standing, like dropped, ( _– hands by his sides, looking so lost –_ ) by the open window, and although it’s not wanted for some reason, Even can’t help but touch him.

“Here,” he whispers, pressing the block to his face as he leads Isak to sit down at the foot of their bed ( _– that he’d made this very morning, bragging that he was actually doing his fair share of chores, thank you very much, and Even had laughed, told him what a good boy he was for doing basic things like that –_ )

Because, sometimes, Even willfully forgets how young Isak. It’s not a demeaning choice, because in the mind, Isak is not a seventeen year old boy. His experience has made him older, and that’s why they work. He’s seen and been through so much, and it shows in his behaviour. One could even say Even’s the immature one of the two; the dreamer and danger that will make this whole thing collapse right in his hands.

Now, though.

With his hat off, ice block to his face, goose bumps on his arms and a black eye in the making, Isak has never looked so small.

On instinct, Even gets down on his knees on the floor in front of him. “Arms up,” he urges, putting his hands on Isak’s skin under his t-shirt  ( _– there’s a shiver going through him, but it’s from Even’s cold hands, it has to be, it has to be, even though the mind is a primal thing –_ ) and pulls it over his head, careful not to touch the ( _– swollen, bruised and hurt –_ ) part of Isak’s face.

He takes his face in his hands, fingers running through his hair. Isak’s eye, the one not hidden behind the ice block, is tired, but open and honest.

Communication is key, words and all, and they’ve learnt the hard way to be honest when need be. Lately, however, there’s been something lacking there. Avoidance, on his part, because even if Isak would understand, it’s something so big and hulking that Even doesn’t want him to know. Doesn’t want him to know that his worst fear, which is spelled out in those eyes of his every time Even has a low point, behind his careful touches ( _– and just in the way Isak looks at him sometimes, like Even’s the most precious thing he’s got –_ ) has already happened, and almost came true ( _– in such a violently quiet way too, don’t think about it –_ )

But. Sometimes, all you need is a look ( _– as Isak keeps eye contact, leaning into his hand with the untouched side of his face, dog-like and trusting, before closing his eyes, causing something inside Even to just break, crackling like frost on a window pane –_ ) to get what you need, in this moment, across.

“You want that?”

He gets an affirmative nod in return before Isak falls back onto the bed ( _– their bed, isn’t that the loveliest word that one can have in their mouth, something that’s shared –_ ) and Even crawls onto it after him, hovering over him. Brushes a thumb over that glued shut lip. Isak hisses, but when Even tries to withdraw, he grabs his wrist.

“Doesn’t hurt if you’re gentle,” he mumbles, and pulls Even in. “Swear it.”

So Even kisses him as gently as he can, focuses on the whole parts of him ( _– the whole parts of them both –_ ) because to be fair, he’s not in the mood at all. He’s heavy and empty, but Isak needs this, and so, Even will provide ( _– with all things slow and soft around the edges, from his hand down Isak’s jeans, to the shivers racking through his body and the teeth digging into his shoulder –_ ) because he can’t do anything else, can’t do the thing they both really need.

Not yet, at least.

Afterwards, he pulls the duvet over them and Isak sags down on top of him, the epitome of achingly familiar exhaustion. Even toys with wisps of blonde hair at his temple; brushes a thumb over his eyebrow ( _– only the parts that haven’t seen violence of that sort, still unblemished –_ ) and listens to Isak’s breathing slowing down.

He’s so beautiful it hurts.

A car passes on the street below them, loud through the open window, and a few stray notes of conversation and laughter filter in with the last bits of light.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Isak whispers into his chest after a while. “But I just – worry I won’t understand you in a way that will make me do the right things. Or, if I do, it will be a lucky guess, you know.”

“I know,” Even whispers to the dark room, even though he doesn’t believe it ( _– shadows on the walls and a part in him just wants to run, while the other has nailed his diaphragm to the floor –_ ).“I know.”

“Okay,” Isak whispers back, just as quiet, as his fingers dance on the skin above Even’s waistband, purposeless. “I want you here, though.”

It’ll never stop to amaze him what moments Isak chooses to say such things. They’re few, and far apart, but always when needed most. Even swallows back the burning behind his eyes. “That’s chill,” he croaks, hugging Isak as hard as he dares ( _– tonight he’s holding a creature with glass bones in his arms, remember that, Even, remember that –_ ) and kisses the top of his head.

Isak snorts into his shoulder then. It’s a soft sound. “Yeah,” he says, with a thumb against Even’s carotid. “That’s chill.”

Through the open window, Even can hear how it starts to rain.

 


End file.
